The Ocean Hearth (A "Hymns of Evermorn" Story) by Lionelson NY

Eli limped his way down the stairwell. The shackles around his wrists and ankles didn’t do his beaten body any favour. His long hair draped over his face as his sweat washed the dirt off his cheeks. He packed his lungs with smoke-thick air as the soot of the burning torch filled the dark catacomb. Two guards, armed with swords kept pushing him forward.

“Faster, thief!” scolded one of them as he shrugged him till he fell and rolled a few steps down.

He only grunted but he kept his patience as he forced himself to stand up and continued his way down.

Step after step, he finally reached a wider chamber, lighted with bigger torches. There he saw an old man in a worn-out grey robe, sitting behind a table. His lack of hair was compensated with a long grey beard. He was writing with a blue quill. He didn’t even bothered to look at them.

“What is it this time?” he asked, with a scrawny old voice. “Murder? Rape? Both?”

“Theft of the highest degree, Sir Registrar” said one of the guard.

“This bloody Red stole the Ocean Hearth” the other said.

When the old man heard the charges, his quill immediately stopped scribbling. Placing it into the ink jar with his jittering hands.

“And where is the royal jewel now?” He asked as he squinted his eyes, trying to get a better look at the thief’s face.

“It is lost with his accomplice, sir” he answered.

The old man take a good look at him. Black hair dangled down to his chin, deep brown eyes, strong jawline with a short beard lining it. A red scarf wrapped around his neck. He stood with quite a tall masculine build, but appeared to be shorter due to him stooping in an attempt to ease the pain on his side.

After a quick observation of the man, the registrar closed his book and grabbed another from the edge of his table. A book among many others that were stacked there. He brushed off the dust and opened the book to a blank page. He grabbed his quill again.

“Does the man have a name?” the old man asked.

“Do you expect him to be carrying around his slip of identification, sir?” the guard said impatiently.

“His word will suffice” he replied. He looked at the man in shackles.

Clearing his throat, the man finally spoke.

“I am Eli Rivergrove, from the Province of Dalem” the thief spoke up.

“Dalem is no more. And I have heard of only one Eli Rivergrove and he is not from Dalem.” The old man said, suspicious.

Eli only kept quiet as the registrar gazed at him with his droopy eyes.

“Take off his scarf and turn him around”

Eli was hesitant. But the guards just roughly pulled him over and grabbed off his red scarf. And there it was; a burnt mark on his nape the size of a coin. A mark of a fountain embroidered with scar tissue. It was no longer as red as it used to be, but the mark could never be missed nor would it ever heal.

“This seal…” said the registrar as he examined the scar closer “…is from the Queendom of Meridia. Specifically from its high penitentiary. It is a mark not for ordinary criminals”

Eli slowly turned back towards the old man. The old man than scribbled down Eli’s name and face description into the book, noting him down for record. The sound of ink running on the page is only accompanied by the sound of burning torches. As he finished writing, he let out a loud cough.

“Send him in” the registrar told them with a croaky voice.

And so, the guards pushed Eli deeper into the chambers and into a tunnel. The smell of smoke was later overwhelmed with the smell of piss, excrements and rotting flesh. The sound of wailing of both men and women, young and old echoed in the long tunnels.

They passed through a corridor, with rooms at both side of the walls, each closed off by iron bars. Eli could see wasted and infected hands reaching out, begging for mercy to be let out. Some were angry, banging the bars with their fists as they growled like bears. Others begged in tears to be given the death penalty.

Along the way, he saw a peculiar old man, thin and wearing torn clothes, just sitting against the wall. Eli paused his steps to exchange look with the man. His skin was sloughing off as flies landed on his ulcers. His dangling white hair was a mess. As for his stench, even a butcher’s bloody hands smelled better. But his eyes…they tell a different story than the others whom Eli had passed by. There wasn’t any anger and it sure wasn’t hopelessness. But rather a sense of deliverance.

“Keep moving or I’ll make you suffer like this old prick!” the guard kicked Eli down. He fell right on his injured side, making him grunt in pain. The other guard just pulled him back up by the hair and shoved him forward.

Finally, after a few more steps, they reached his cell. After Eli entered the room willingly, the guards slammed the iron bars shut. The sound of metal echoed up the corridor.

“Bring those shackles here!” they ordered. Eli slowly walked towards the bars and passed his chained wrists outside. The guards grabbed the shackles and unlocked them. The same was done to his feet. Once they were done, they turned to leave the place. But suddenly, Eli let out a faint whisper.

“The man is thirsty” he mumbled.

“What’s that?” the guard growled. “Do you think you can make a request here?”

“The old man in the cell just now” Eli spoke. “He needs a drink”

The guard only smirked.

“I’ll give him a cup of my piss on my way out.” Then they stormed off.

Eli was left in the dark cell of the dungeon. He let out a loud sigh and closed his eyes as he leaned on the wall, not knowing how long he will have to be in there. And even if he knew, there was no way to tell the time. All he could do was sit and pray.

All-father Sirium, bless my journey as I take this pilgrimage along the path of a martyr…